


full throttle

by orphan_account



Category: Cars (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Porn, Hand Jobs, M/M, Masturbation, lowkey a king cobra AU?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-30
Updated: 2017-03-30
Packaged: 2018-10-12 22:37:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,641
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10500870
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: He's thinking about Chris Kirkpatrick.





	

**Author's Note:**

> yes this is sexy human jock lightning mcqueen as my first fic on here it was a groupchat injoke that got out of hand please Do Not Judge

“And here we have, uh…” That awful voice trails off, drawling to a stop. God, he hates this guy’s fucking voice. The guy coughs.

Lightning — that’s his name now, that’s what he’s going with — shifts on the couch. He looks straight at the camera. “Lightning,” he says. “Lightning McQueen.”

“Lightning?” Mr. Mater peeks out from behind the camera. Lightning calls him White Trash in his head. That fucking molasses-thick hick accent. The coughed-up dregs of the trailer park. Everything about him reeks of desperation and old pork rinds. “McQueen sounds fine, but — Lightning? Are you… sure?”

“We’re wasting battery talking about it. Just go with Lightning.”

White Trash is — dubious. That’s the word he can use to describe him. Dubious. But he’s exactly what Lightning expected in their corresponding emails, so he can’t say he’s caught off-guard by the whole ambiguously-a-felon thing he has going on.

“I can reshoot,” says White Trash. Runs a hand through his mini-mullet. Lightning’s checked the site, of course. Bought one or two of the videos, even. The other guys are named shit like Brent. Like Cameron. Like Jackson. Lightning’s a hard sell, but he’ll sell it.

“I’m gonna go with Lightning.”

“Someone’s feisty,” White Trash murmurs.

“Start over?” Lightning asks. He spreads his legs on the cushion a little wider, pushes up his shirt a little higher. Just for good measure. White Trash sighs and relents.

“Fine,” he says, and fiddles with his camera a bit. He chuckles. “Okay. Take two. This is our newest boy, Lightning McQueen. Why don’t you say hi, Lightning?”

“Hey,” Lightning says. Smiles for the camera. He brushed his teeth twice this morning and his mouth still tastes like mint.

“Tell us where you’re from.” Less question, more order.

“Dallas, Texas,” Lightning replies.

“Long way off from Radiator Springs. What brings you to Arizona?”

Lightning plays coy for a second. He’s on film now. Might as well act. “Don’t make me _say_ it,” he says, and hopes there’s some kind of visible blush on him. “You know what I’m in Arizona for.”

White Trash smiles from behind his tripod. “Good trip? You drove, right? See any sights?”

“Nah, I, uh — just kinda got here as fast as possible,” Lightning says.

“Mm. Pretty eager to get here, huh?” White Trash pushes the brim of his cap up slightly and wipes some sweat from his brow with the hem of his plaid shirt. Lightning’s forgotten the guy’s actual first name. Joe? Tom? Larry the Gay-ble Guy. The stupidest fucking joke he’s ever thought of. “You nervous?”

“Nope,” Lightning says.

“Confidence. Good trait to have if you’re gonna be on camera,” White Trash says. “You’re, uh, eighteen?”

“Seventeen,” Lightning replies. Genuine panic flashes over White Trash’s face. “Oh my God, I kid, I kid! Don’t worry. Eighteen. I’m eighteen.”

Twenty-one, actually. But eighteen’s the golden ticket. Grown men’ll come in their pants at this. Lightning wonders, for a second, what his first video’s going to be christened. CUTE JOCK JERKS ON CAM. TEEN’S FIRST TIME FILMED. BARELY LEGAL STUD GOES SOLO.

White Trash’ll figure it out. One of the few things Lightning trusts him with.

“Eighteen,” White Trash says. There’s an uncomfortable pause. He laughs nervously. “Eighteen. Alright. Scared me for a moment. Probably gave all the guys watching at home a shock, too.”

“I dunno, I’m sure some are into that.” Lightning winks right at the camera.

White Trash laughs it off again with that barking guffaw. “You in college? Where you going to school?”

“Just finishing my senior year,” Lightning lies. He decides not to bullshit his hobby, singular: “I, uh… I like cars. I’d love to maybe be a — a driver. Y’know, like NASCAR.” 

“Nice, nice,” White Trash says. “Well, long drive. Probably gave you time to brush up.”

“Yeah.”

And Lightning’s studied. He knows what this is, it’s all _rote_. Like small talk at a dinner party, but with more cocks. 

But still. He wants to know when he’s going to get his dick out. The room — the studio, he remembers, this is White Trash’s “studio,” where he brings up guys like Lightning and pays them to jerk off on camera — feels too stark. The rest of the room is dim and empty, and it’s like he and White Trash are miles apart from each other, like he’s an eternity away from the lone potted plant next to the blinded window.

His thin t-shirt is sticking to his stomach. He hopes it outlines his abs. He paid good money for it; one of those bullshit 50-dollar brand name white tees.

“Wanna give us your stats?”White Trash asks. Fucking finally.

“5’9”, 183,” Lightning says. He rehearsed.

“Mind popping that shirt off for us? Show the guys at home what you’re working with?” White Trash always refers to an unseen “us.” The “guys at home.” Lightning likes those little reminders that he’s on film. That there’s guys paying to see him do his thing. He leans forward and strips his shirt off, tossing it somewhere in the general direction of the potted plant.

“Shit, yeah. That’s good,” White Trash says. Lets out an appreciative whistle. “Nice tattoo. C’mon and give us a better look, Speed Racer.”

“Speed Racer,” Lightning replies, giving the camera a good view of his bicep. Left one, with the big red 95 stamped across it. “I like it.” It’s a little flattering. And now they’ve both got nicknames. But Lightning still doesn’t call W.T. that out loud.

“95?”

Birth year. Future NASCAR number, hopefully. “The year my parents got married,” he says instead. “I was thinking when — if I manage to drive, my car could be 95.”

“You are really into this car shit.”

Lightning shrugs. “Yeah, I guess.”

“So, uh — you’re gay, bi, what?” White Trash asks. “Any boyfriends?”

“No, no, I’m, uh — I’m bi. And single.”

“Preferences?”

“I — I dunno. Both are fine. Guys and girls.”

“Pros and cons, pros and cons,” White Trash says. Lightning smiles along. “Let’s see those abs.” Lightning sits up and gives the guys at home an eyeful, putting his hands behind his head so the camera can get a proper shot of them. He even sucks in his stomach a little, but that might not be necessary. White Trash seems plenty interested already. “You work out much?”

“Yeah,” Lightning says.

“It shows. That’s good. That’s nice.”

“Thanks,” Lightning replies.

“Okay — question,” says White Trash, voice lowering, “boxers or briefs? Maybe provide us a, uh — an answer of the more… visual variety?”

“Don’t mind if I do,” Lightning says, and stands up to take off his jeans. He goes slowly. Just like how he studied, just like how he practiced. He makes sure he’s looking into the camera the entire time, eyes intent and dark and focused on the lens, hands softly popping the button on his fly and unzipping it. He tries to pace it. 

His throat feels dry as the desert he spent ten-plus fucking hours driving through to get here. He slides the jeans down his hips and remembers he should give some kind of stupid sexy porn-dialogue retort to the “guys back home” — cocky’s his thing now. Do porn stars have _things_? His mind drifts to boy band archetypes.

“How’s this for an answer?” he asks. It sounded cool in his head but stupid when he says it out loud. He’s thinking about Chris Kirkpatrick.

He bought the jockstrap for this. Pulled into a Dick’s (aptly named) and used some of his gas money to get it. White Trash’s eyes widen. “Very nice,” he says.

“Thanks,” Lightning says, but it comes out less confident than he intends.

Lightning’s barely hard. White Trash notices. “Why don’t you play with yourself a bit?” he asks. Lightning finishes kicking off his jeans and flops back down on the couch. He spreads his thighs farther apart and leans back, showing himself off.

The shades are down, the lights are low; Lightning bites his lip. Jerks his hips up into his hand a little, squeezing occasionally. He feels his cock jolt a bit. The couch is rough and itchy on his ass and thighs. “Fuck,” White Trash whispers. “That’s good. Keep doing that.”

“Yeah? You like it?” Lightning asks, loudly. He’s getting more on track now. He’s got it. He feels himself stiffen and he runs his hand down the length of his cock, outlining the shape of it in his underwear.

“Keep going, keep going. Tell us about your first time,” White Trash urges. His thick fingers mash a few buttons on the camera, and Lightning can only guess he’s zooming in on where it matters. “With a guy, a girl? Good time?”

“Yeah, uh — I was sixteen,” Lightning says. “It was a girl. She was. It was — we were sixteen, so.”

“How was she?”

“Nice,” Lightning replies. “I mean, she was a nice girl, y’know. She felt — nice, too, I guess.”

“Ever been with a guy?”

“Uh —” The mint taste on his tongue is fading, replacing itself with the heavy, dry feeling of air that’s been stuffed in a small room for a long time. White Trash needs to clean his fucking studio once in a while. Maybe open a window. “I — I haven’t, actually.”

“Really,” White Trash says, intrigued.

“Yeah,” Lightning says.

“You like cars, Speed Racer,” White Trash says. “Ever thought about getting bent over the hood of one and just getting _railed_?”

Lightning keeps massaging his dick, feeling it stiffen a bit more at White Trash’s proposition. He stares the camera down, eyes half-mast, cock half-hard. “Shit,” he says, “I am now.”

“I got one of our other boys. Mac. Remind me to remind you about Mac,” he continues, zooming back out with another smush of his fingers on the buttons. “The guys back home know Mac. He’s a Goddamn powerhouse. He’ll break you in.”

“Sounds like a plan,” says Lightning, like they’re saving the date for a lunch meeting. Something mundane, something — not-porn. But right now that _is_ what he’s doing, he’s doing porn, and for the first time since knocking on Mr. Mater’s door, that really sinks in. He remembers the guy didn’t come outside when Lightning arrived. Maybe there’s a house arrest ankle monitor under those filthy jeans — at least Lightning’s legal. He’s not too sure about some of those other boys.

“Ever tried fingering yourself?” White Trash asks.

“Nah.” He tries to make his muscles shift, but he’s not sure the camera’s quality is good enough to pick that kind of thing up. Lightning’s finally starting to sweat, starting to stir, finally starting to get properly into this. He slips his hand under the fabric and presses his fingers to his bare cock — just skims the top of it. Doesn’t grab it. Doesn’t go any lower.

“We don’t have to go there today, then,” White Trash says. “This is good stuff, though, so why don’t you just keep on jerking —”

“No,” Lightning says almost immediately, the thought barely processing itself in his brain before he’s out with it, “I wanna do that today. Here. That sounds hot.”

“Whoa there, Speed Racer.” White Trash’s eyes are dark and glazed over and looking at him, and Lightning thinks of — he hates the thought, but he thinks of it anyway, he thinks of taxidermized animals. Like a stuffed bear, hairy arms curled around the tripod in a pre-emptive attack. Teeth jagged and hungry. “We ain’t even seen you. Take it out for us, won’t you?”

“Yeah,” Lightning says, and he feels his fingers slightly tremble under the tight fabric of the jock, “yeah. Okay.”

He shoves the support pouch hastily to the side, exposing his cock. It’s flushed and rigid now, and the more he leaves it alone the more it starts to ache.

“Go ahead,” White Trash says, “you can touch it.” Lightning gives it a few rudimentary, relieving strokes.

“You do anything besides cars?” White Trash asks him. “Any other interests, or…?”

“What?” Lightning asks, hips thrusting up a bit into his own hand. He forgets what time it is or what time they started or how long it’s been; the sunlight filtering through the blinds is a vague shade of afternoon that could be one or could be five-thirty.

“Do any other sports?”

“Uh — I did football for, like, a year,” he says, and doesn’t get why they’re still on the whole small-talk thing. “Junior year. Of high school.”

“Mm. Ever gotten up to anything with the other guys in the locker rooms?” White Trash asks. Lightning remembers he’s selling something, and smiles sheepishly. “C’mon. You can tell me.”

“I’d watch ‘em and jerk off after they left,” Lightning says. Call him a stickler but he wants to keep his bullshit consistent — if he’s never been with a guy, he’s never been with a guy. He licks his lips, but they dry out again in what seems like nanoseconds. “I kinda wanted to rejoin in senior year. Just to see them again.”

“Had any fantasies about them you’d be willing to share?”

“My coach,” Lightning blurts, and where the _fuck_ did that come from but it’s good, White Trash seems interested — “my coach, he was this — this older middle-aged guy. Used to be in the army, and — and we’d call him Sarge, and — I’d wanna suck his dick. I want to.”

“Yeah? Wanna choke on your coach’s cock?”

“Shit, yeah.” Lightning groans.

“You’re into older guys?”

Lightning guesses he is. He’s not — _into_ White Trash, not by a fucking long shot, but he likes the way the guy looks at him from behind the camera. Eyes like a predator, mouth slightly agape, breath ragged.

“Fuck — yeah, I am. I’m into older guys,” Lightning says, feeling the words take shape in his mouth, feels his heavy tongue roll back on the L sound in _older_. His arms and legs feel taut, his face ripe and reddening with sweat. He’s going to get so much fucking cash for this. He’s too fucking good. He’s going to end up on the front fucking page of that website; the guys at home’ll be greeted by an eyeful of Lightning Ass. They’re so welcome. 

“Finger yourself,” White Trash says. “Let’s see it. Lube’s under the cushion.” He’s silent as Lightning grabs it, one hand still on his dick. 

Lightning turns the bottle over in his sweaty palm. The liquid is clear and viscous through the plastic. He looks back at White Trash. He’s taken his trucker hat off and put it next to him, exposing his thinning hair.

“Can you tell me what to do?” he asks.

And Lightning can’t even believe the words that are coming out of his mouth right now — he’s asking someone — Duck Dynasty’s weird distant cousin who runs a gay porn studio in the middle of nowhere, no less — to tell him how to shove his fingers up his own ass.

“Okay,” White Trash says, “yeah. Sure. Get some of the stuff on your fingers — we’ll just start with one.”

Lightning does as he says. His mouth feels clogged in the stale room. Like a fish in the Mojave desert. Like a salmon gasping for air in the claws of a grizzly. That potted plant isn’t producing near enough oxygen for the both of them.

White Trash is still fully clothed, sans hat. “Just one,” Lightning chokes out, and moves down on the couch, thighs spread, to expose his asshole to the camera.

“Y’know what? Let’s see you turn around. Let’s see that ass.”

“I — okay,” Lightning says, and shuffles back up, realizing again how itchy the couch is. The sensation seems to come in waves; first it’s scratchy, then he forgets the texture, then it’s scratchy. He awkwardly turns around and kneels on the cushion, facing the wall. It smells like dust in the room. Like dust, and hot, wet spit.

“You got a cute little ass. Show it off for us, baby,” White Trash says, and the word baby sounds so _hideous_ coming out of his mouth but Lightning’s not getting any softer, and then — the quiet plastic click of the camera zooming in. Lightning tries to wiggle it and immediately feels like a fucking idiot. He opts to arch his back instead, pushing his ass a little farther out. “Wanna let us see?”

Lightning tries to slide his legs open a little more, meeting resistance from the rough cushion fabric. He forces them on, trying to make it seem natural. This should be natural. Natural and easy and hot. He slides a wet finger in between his cheeks and pushes in.

It feels — weird. Tight, definitely. But a feeling he could get used to. He keeps going with it, adding another one, and it starts getting good. He puts his other hand on the back of the couch to steady himself. He’s thinking about Sarge, maybe. Guys like Sarge. Lightning’s imagining White Trash. 

“Slow down, Speed Racer,” White Trash says. “Just a couple. Just a couple, c’mon, pace yourself. Slower. That’s good. You like it?”

“Yeah,” Lightning says, and it comes out trembling. The sweat is prickling like little needles on his back and his cock’s not as hard as he wants it to be. He’s not as self-assured as he wants to be. He doesn’t think he’s even sure what he wants to be right now.

“You think you’d prefer topping or bottoming?” White Trash asks. Lightning doesn’t have the patience or brainpower for this level of introspection right now; it’s just him and his knees raking on the couch and his fingers stuffed in his ass. White Trash answers for him, anyway — “you seem pretty keen on bottoming. I reckon our very next video we can set you up with Mac.”

“Okay,” Lightning says, speaking with heavy pants, too loud in the small room, “sounds good.”

“Turn back around. You can keep on going with the fingers.”

“Yeah — yeah,” Lightning stutters, voice jerky, flipping over and starting to stroke himself again.

“That’s good?”

“Yeah,” Lightning says, and it feels like the only word he’ll ever say anymore.

There’s still that same detachment in that same empty studio. He still feels far from the things that he suddenly finds himself needing. Lightning wants less of that distance. His hands are damp with sweat and lube, one tangling in his blond hair while the other jerks his cock frantically.

“Does that camera detach?” he asks, voice slurring with need. Need for fucking Cletus, fucking Billy Bob, whatever stupid fucking redneck name he can think of to mock the guy — to _do something_. “Get over here.”

White Trash ambles over and reaches with one big hand, clunking against Lightning’s abs and sliding down to his dick. He drops down, closer to Lightning.

“Fuck,” Lightning whines, “oh my God, touch me.”

“Imagine I’m your coach,” White Trash prompts, stroking him with one dirty hand. He smells sharp and ugly, like worn leather, and Lightning can nearly taste it. White Trash towers over him, one denim-clad leg hoisted up onto the couch for balance and his forehead pressed against Lightning’s. He's holding the camera right at his cock, and when he speaks Lightning’s not sure if there’s sweat or saliva dripping onto his cheek, and Lightning hates him, hates himself. “You’re late for practice. You’re gonna get punished.” 

Lightning feels like he’s going to spontaneously combust.

“Yeah, I’m gonna get punished,” he repeats, hands scrabbling for a proper grip on the sofa. He throws his head back, pushing his hips up into White Trash’s grimy hand, and he comes with a shout, spurting all over the guy’s fingers. It hurts. It feels like a gut punch. 

“I’m gonna bench you. You can’t play today. Gonna make you into the team’s little slut instead,” White Trash goes on. And then they’re in his _mouth_ ; the camera’s trained right on him and he’s starting to choke as White Trash forces his come-covered fingers past Lightning’s lips, his teeth and tongue gnashing around them as he tastes nothing but his own acrid release. “Get used to the taste, bitch. You’re gonna be whoring yourself out until practice is over. Fuckin’ swallow it.”

White Trash pulls them out. They leave a spit trail that glistens when the low light catches it. Lightning wants to throw up.

“God, that’s good. Good boy. Holy shit,” White Trash is muttering. Too loud, much too loud. He hates it.

The camera turns off with a click, and the comedown is a face-first plummet. Lightning doesn’t know how he feels. He’s lying there, itchy couch fabric rough on his skin, jizz drying on his abs, with a sour, musty kind of taste in his mouth and a sinking sensation in his stomach. His chest rises and falls as he steadies his breathing. 

He wants to say — if he had to venture a guess, grope for any possible Feeling Word to describe his current state — he feels used. And — gross. Gross is a good descriptor. And White Trash feels comfortably disgusting again, with his disgusting face and his disgusting hands and his disgusting hick voice.

“Solid job, Speed Racer,” White Trash says, in said disgusting hick voice, “this one’ll sell like hotcakes. I got a feeling.”

“What time is it?” Lightning croaks.

“Uh —” White Trash picks up his phone from its spot on the floor next to the tripod and checks it. “Six twenty-six.”

“Thanks,” Lightning says, and blinks back the evening. Even the little slip of sun that shows through the blinds is too much for him.

“I gotta piss,” White Trash announces, and puts the camera down and leaves for the restroom. He still doesn’t know the guy’s first name, and the guy probably just knows him as “Lightning” now. Or worse, “Speed Racer.”

And, for just a moment, Lightning can’t remember what he came to Arizona for.


End file.
